


Contemplation

by fractalgeometry



Series: The Existence (or lack thereof) Of Demons And Angels [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Communication, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, M/M, Other, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), but he’s getting better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalgeometry/pseuds/fractalgeometry
Summary: Crowley is starting to like a human. He does not want to like this human. Or any human. It's too complicated, and requires too many feelings. He's only just figuring out how to do feelings withAziraphale.Unfortunately, it's starting to look like he doesn't have any choice.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Existence (or lack thereof) Of Demons And Angels [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774987
Comments: 15
Kudos: 101





	Contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> I was actually in the middle of writing a different story when the idea for this came to me, so I took a break to write it. The other story (a Max-centric, post-[Demons Don't Exist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24409117) fic) will probably be ready to post sometime in the next week or so. Until then, have this ineffable husbands piece. 
> 
> Takes place early in the Demons Don’t Exist timeframe.

Crowley was in a funk. He would undoubtedly deny it if Aziraphale attempted to say anything, but it was clearly a funk. For several days now he had been quieter than usual, more grumpy, less open. Aziraphale was uncomfortably reminded of Crowley’s countenance for most of the last several thousand years, a set of behaviors and expressions that had oh-so-recently begun to fade. It was worrisome. He resolved to keep an eye on it.

It was a few more days before there was any chance to bring up Crowley’s mood. Most of the worst of it had been taken out on the garden, or the roads via the Bentley, or some other active, non-Aziraphale-related activity. But on this day, Aziraphale entered the living room to find Crowley slouching on the sofa, half-leaning on one elbow, chin on his fist, staring moodily at nothing. It was, Aziraphale thought, a clear invitation. Crowley had to know that Aziraphale had noticed his behavior, and was giving him an opening to talk about it. All that Aziraphale had to do was take the opening. Quite genius, really.

He sat down.

~

Crowley saw Aziraphale’s face when he entered the room. He saw an idea dawn there, and was therefore completely unsurprised when Aziraphale crossed the room to sit a little way down the sofa. 

Crowley was no fool. You didn’t get to be six thousand years old by being a fool. He knew that Aziraphale had noticed how he’d been acting, and he still hadn’t done anything to pull himself together and pretend he was fine. Which meant that he knew they’d have this conversation, sooner or later. So he was willing to set it up. He was not, however, willing to say the first words. Words weren’t his forte. If they were going to use words, Aziraphale was going to start.

“Something is bothering you, Crowley. Could you tell me what it is?”

In spite of his thoughts, Crowley felt a surge of wry affection at the question. The year before, as they were navigating their new existence post-apocalypse, Aziraphale had read several books on clear communication. He had shared a good deal of the contents of those books with Crowley, who had griped and moaned and pretended to ignore him, but had also internalized every word. Then they had begun the laborious process of figuring out which things were useful to them specifically. One of the things they learned was that Crowley was much better at talking about  _ feelings _ when Aziraphale phrased it as a request, not an offer. He could shoot down an offer. He could, conceivably, shoot down a request too. He just didn’t.

So Crowley knew exactly what Aziraphale was doing here. He knew that it was completely on purpose, and he let it loosen his tongue anyway.

He sighed and dug his chin a little more firmly into his fist. “I’m getting  _ attached.” _

“To whom?” Aziraphale asked gently, damn him for a perceptive bastard.

“Could be a what,” Crowley pointed out, because he was still incapable of going straight to the point. “No reason it couldn’t be a what. This unfairly enjoyable house, for instance. Or my garden. Heck, could be the whole town.”

“Mmhm,” Aziraphale said. He was waiting, not letting Crowley distract him, and Crowley couldn’t decide whether he loved or hated him for it.

Loved. Always loved. Thank something for Aziraphale’s patience.

Crowley gave up on trying to put a dent in his hand and slouched further against the back of the sofa. His shoulder was only a few centimeters from Aziraphale’s side. “You know who,” he mumbled.

“Tell me.”

That was another thing from Aziraphale’s books. The books had said that relying on mutual understanding when communicating “tough feelings” wasn’t enough, and recommended saying the mutually understood things out loud, to “own the emotion” and “finish your thoughts”. Aziraphale  _ did _ know who, and he knew that Crowley knew that he knew. 

The books, to Crowley’s mild chagrin, were usually right. He groaned, a vocalized expression of how he was feeling about all this, then said, “You know. The kid. Max.”

“Ah.”

Max had been showing up more and more over the two months since they’d met him. He liked to help Crowley in the garden, or help Aziraphale with his new organizational system for the books. The last few times he had even brought some of his toys — blocks, once, and cars another time — and entertained himself nearby while they were busy with other things. He was inserting himself into their lives, and Crowley couldn’t find a way to stop it. Worse, he didn’t  _ want _ to stop it.

Aziraphale’s hand landed in front of him, palm up. Crowley squirmed around until he could put his own hand in it. After a moment he continued talking.

“It’s just, ugh, I get lonely or something. Don’t get me wrong, these days I have you, and that makes it, like, infinitely better, but it’s just the two of us. And I see the  _ humans, _ with their  _ communities _ and their  _ kids,  _ and I…”

“Feel lonely,” Aziraphale finished. “Because their windows of understanding are so small and ours are so very large, and it’s hard to make a connection.” His voice was understanding, not just in an empathetic-understanding kind of way, but in an I-feel-this-too kind of way.

“But with Max,” Crowley said, “he’s making the connection. And I don’t know why, and I don’t know if he should, or if I should let him, but I can’t-” He made a frustrated noise. “I can’t stop him.”

“And that scares you,” Aziraphale said, because that was one that they both knew he’d never get Crowley to say. He didn’t mention that it would technically be easy to get Max to stop coming around. There were many avenues open for that outcome. The roadblock was simply that neither of them  _ wanted _ to.

Crowley made another choked, frustrated noise. If he were a cat it would have been a yowl. “You know the problem with humans?” he asked. “They’re so  _ complicated. _ Their lives are so short, and yet they’re so complicated! They’re smart, and cruel, and kind, and inventive, and- and interesting! And this kid, I feel like, if he’s willing to spend time with us, I’m too selfish to say no! Because he’s smart and interesting and kind and I could imagine him teaching us things and us teaching him things and yes, I’m getting  _ attached.” _ He said the last word with the same level of disgust he had imbued it with before. 

“Tell me what you’re not saying,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley huffed in annoyance that they both knew wasn’t really directed at Aziraphale. 

“Their lives are so short,” he said again. “And I know, right now, that Max is going to get older, and older, and I’m going to get  _ more _ attached, and then, after a little while,” he swallowed and took in a breath that was much shakier than he would have liked, “he’s going to- to die.” Despite his best efforts, Crowley’s voice cracked on the last word, and he knew right then and there that he was screwed. He was already attached, and once he was attached he wasn’t letting go, not until he was forced to. Damn humans for being so  _ likable. _

Aziraphale’s hand was tight in Crowley’s. When he spoke, he sounded emotional. “Yes,” he said softly. “He will. But right now he is young, and, Crowley…”

Crowley shuffled himself so he could look up at Aziraphale’s face. Eye contact when he was being vulnerable tended to make Crowley want to run for the hills, but for Aziraphale it was the exact opposite. And from his voice, Crowley could tell Aziraphale needed a little support. A little encouragement.

Aziraphale gave him a small half-smile. “I don’t want us to send him away.”

“I’m not big on the idea myself,” Crowley said, dropping his eyes again to stare at the edge of the sofa.

“But it hurts to know what will happen.”

Crowley nodded. He was done talking.

Aziraphale knew it. His hand withdrew from Crowley’s and reached instead to twine through Crowley’s hair. He didn’t physically pull Crowley any closer, but he moved anyway, worming his way down the sofa to lean his head on Aziraphale’s side.

“Thank you for talking about it, my dear,” Aziraphale said from above him. “I’m proud of you.”

Crowley growled half-heartedly, but it turned into more of a hum when Aziraphale ran fingers through his hair again. That was another thing from Aziraphale’s books.  _ Positive reinforcement. _ Aziraphale had liked the idea and now he did it every time Crowley talked about  _ feelings. _ Crowley refused to admit that he liked it. He definitely refused to even contemplate the fact that it  _ worked. _ He didn’t, however, make Aziraphale stop. For now, that was answer enough.

~

The next day, when a certain eight-year-old boy unlatched the gate, Crowley was working in the garden again. He didn’t acknowledge Max until the boy appeared at his elbow.

“Mr. Crowley? Can I help?”

Crowley turned and looked the small human in front of him up and down. He took in the messy hair, rumpled t-shirt, and too-small backpack. He saw the earnestness of the question. He saw how much Max really did want to be there.

Then he took a breath and let himself want Max there. He let himself be happy to see the boy. He took in the sight of this small, determined human, who was unknowingly and wholeheartedly putting himself in the hands of a demon and an angel, and he let himself  _ care _ about that human.

“‘Course,” he said. “Go say hi to Aziraphale first. He’ll be fussy at me if I keep you all to myself.”

Max was their human now. For as long as he wanted to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Comments make my day.


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